


(Polyhexian) Ghost Stories

by dragonofdispair



Series: Across the Great Divide [9]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of battle, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Claws, Contaminated Wounds, Corpses, Creepy, Cuddling and Snuggling, Discussing Phobias, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Consent, Fear Play, Growing feelings, Hidden Feelings, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Lost in Enemy Territory, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Murder, Mutilation of Corpses, Near-Death Experience, Night vision, Not Incest, Organized Crime, Scavenging Corpses, Sparkeaters, Supernatural Creatures, Supernatural Elements, Terrorcons, Violence, Wartime Mindset, Zombies, commitment issues, get your processor out of the gutter, horror story, platonic twin bond, still not incest, unwanted arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Murderers, zombies, vampires and Ghosts… Cybertron’s got a lot to be afraid of. Some of them Smokescreen wishes were just stories. Others he wouldn’t have any other way.





	1. Murder

**Author's Note:**

> These take place at various points of my _Across the Great Divide_ AU timeline, from just after _Friends With Benefits_ to after _A (Praxan) Ghost Story_.
> 
> Mature rating for discussions of sex, fear and killing.
> 
> Beta'ed by FHC_Lynn

Tonight, Ricochet hadn’t bothered with the personal flourishes he once would have. No matter  _ how much _ he wanted to take his anger out on the rapist he’d been sent after, he could not afford to leave behind evidence. Not even the sort of evidence that wasn’t so much  _ evidence _ as fodder for psych profiles. In Polyhex, such things were normal. Every enforcer sent on these nasty tasks had their own style, had those things they added to the kill to make a simple execution more  _ satisfying. _

Especially when the crime was rape. Once, Ricochet had been well known for carving out rapists’ spike and valve and shoving the components down their intakes.  _ Before _ killing them.

Polyhexian police had made a note of it, but other than using it to tell which enforcer had  _ likely _ been responsible for which executions, they hadn’t really bothered to do anything about it. What was that policemech saying? “A bad mech and a Family execution — sometimes that’s justice in Polyhex.”

Praxans weren’t so philosophical about things like what Ricochet’d done tonight though. 

To combat it, Titanium had them follow the execution ritual to the letter, with no deviations. Always in a motel room rented in the victim’s name. Always with the victim drugged into submission, vocalizers and commsuites disabled quickly and painlessly. Commonly available construction spikes were used to nail the mech to the floor so Ricochet (or whichever enforcer had been assigned this task) could carve out his spark with a common kitchen knife. Wham, bam, done. No flourishes. Looked to the police like a single serial killer’s work, rather than what it really was.

Tomorrow he’d dump the parcel containing the sparkchamber into a public mail pickup bin. Police would get it in a few days. That was the riskiest bit. In order for it to be an  _ execution _ instead of just a murder, the sparkchamber and a list of the mech’s crimes had to be delivered to the police. They had to  _ find _ the kill site. Praxan homicide department thought this particular serial killer had a penchant for taunting them; Polyhex’s could have told them otherwise, if they’d been inclined.

Ricochet still had energon from the rapist on his plating when he arrived, late and unnoticed by his neighbors, at his house. The former residence of one of Little Polyhex’s previous Sires, the house was easy to come and go from without being seen. Sticky and dried and disgusting for more than just the energon’s physical qualities, Ricochet went straight to the shower and scrubbed it away until his paint burned. 

He stopped before he’d scrubbed any of his paint  _ off. _ He knew better than that.

Then he tried to go to sleep. 

And couldn’t.

It wasn’t something so stupid and useless as  _ guilt _ keeping him up. Ricochet hadn’t felt guilt over a kill in so long there were mechs back in Polyhex who had wondered if he hadn’t been sparked a killer. Instead he was twitchy and pacing and wanted to  _ frag. _

Usually Jazz would soothe him. Nothing so sordid as sex; Ricochet had had to tell more than one mech in the past to  _ get your mind out of the gutter _ — and enforce the lesson with threats. Because he and Jazz weren’t  _ like that. _ Jazz was just  _ calm _ for Ricochet. Jazz wasn’t here, but he flung the bond open as far as he could, searching out the soothing sense of his twin’s spark.

Jazz was asleep, blissfully unaware of murder in the night. Peaceful. Calm. Steady. Soothing. Ricochet revelled in it.

Until Jazz stirred.

Ricochet retreated hurriedly. Jazz was  _ out. _ He didn’t deal with Family business any longer. Not smuggling. Not debt collection. Certainly not murder. Even if their twin bond hadn’t been weakened almost to the point of breaking, Ricochet wouldn’t inflict the knowledge of what he’d just done on his twin.

Primusdamnit, Ricochet still wanted to frag. This was a fey, dangerous mood of his. The feeling of energon and other fluids dripping from his claws, the scent of ozone and overtaxed wires, the way the mech’s EM field had spiked with fear and pain right before it had cut out entirely… these were not things a normal mech would find arousing.  _ He _ didn’t even like it, but there was no denying it. That’s  _ why _ he prefered it if Jazz soothed him, rather than finding a lover for the night.

But he didn’t dare try the bond again. Jazz shouldn’t know that Ricochet had killed someone tonight, and if he woke, he’d find Ricochet’s mood unmistakable.

Ricochet paced again. Then with a violent expulsion of air from his vents, he grabbed the package. If he wasn’t going to sleep tonight, he could at least drop that off tonight, when there would be fewer possible witnesses, then go for a drive…

_ Smokescreen would probably appreciate this mood. _

The thought came unbidden. Ricochet snarled, burying it, but it kept resurfacing. He wasn’t going to inflict himself on a mostly-innocent mech tonight!

But it was true. Smokescreen liked being afraid, and Ricochet was probably in his most frightening mood right now. And it would be a pretty solid alibi, said the small, tiny,  _ practical _ part of him that had grown since he no longer had his twin constantly reminding him to be careful. 

Go for a drive, drop off the package, then decide…


	2. Murder

Smokescreen looked up at the Family enforcer holding him close incredulously. “I’m not sure I should be telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it to scare me.”

Ricochet chuckled and ran his claws along the civilian-thin plating of Smokescreen’s inner arm, paying special attention to the mech’s wrist where there was no armor at all. With a shiver of mingled fear and arousal, Smokescreen slapped the wandering hand. Ricochet’s point was well-made; the Polyhexian already had a  _ list _ of Smokescreen’s various fears — from the extremely reasonable one of Ricochet’s claws, to ones the Polyhexian found utterly absurd — and used them shamelessly to scare Smokescreen because Smokescreen  _ liked _ being scared.

When he’d first figured that out, both he and his sweetspark at the time had thought there might be something wrong with him. Ricochet — Polyhexians in general — had a different view. To him, it wasn’t anything unusual. According to that Polyhexian kinkster group Smokescreen had been going to — just to  _ talk, _ which, yeah, actually  _ talking about sex _ with someone he wasn’t sleeping with had been pretty scary in itself — arousal, fear, anger all were very similar physiologically and it was really easy for the feelings and responses to get mixed up and intertwined in ways Smokescreen thought he should find weird. In warframes, when anger, fear, and arousal got intertwined in their combat protocols, it resulted in the battlelust and occasional berserker rages certain gladiators were famed for. In civilians like Smokescreen it generally just meant they were turned on by weird things. Like fear.

“This one’s  _ different,” _ Smokescreen insisted.”You’re asking about the kinds of fears that I  _ can’t _ be brave about.”

The sort he didn’t want to be aroused by.

Ricochet didn’t answer; he just cuddled closer, more reassuringly, to Smokescreen and ran the backs of his hands over the Praxan’s plating. That had both confused him, and not, at first. He’d thought that Ricochet did it so he wouldn’t accidentally hurt Smokescreen with his claws. Obvious. But after months of these trysts he’d come to realize that Ricochet was always exquisitely careful with his claws and Smokescreen could not recall a single time when he’d accidentally gouged or cut something, even extremely fragile things like sheets of flimsy. Again it had been the Polyhexians in the kinksters’ group who had cleared up the gesture for him: claws were more than just a backup weapon. More than just scary because they were sharp. They were a cultural signal of  _ threat _ and by using the backs of his hands Ricochet was telling Smokescreen he wasn’t a threat to  _ him. _

Smokescreen had long ago admitted (to himself, because he was  _ sure _ that if he ever said it out loud Rico’d vanish so fast he’d hear the  _ pop! _ of air rushing in to fill the vacuum he left behind) that this part — the aftercare — was as much a part of his addiction to the Family enforcer as the fact that he was  _ dangerous. _

Ricochet was silent for a long time — so long Smokescreen thought he’d dropped the topic. But then, “So, y’gonna answer? Y’know I won’t do anything ta hurt you. You don’t want ta see this fear come up durin’ interfacing, I won’t. Promise.”

Smokescreen sighed dramatically. “Fine.” Obviously Ricochet wasn’t going to drop this. Silently he scrambled for something to say other than  _ losing you _ because he figured those words would have the same magical ability to make Ricochet disappear as admitting to any other sort of  _ feelings _ would. “Don’t laugh. I am  _ deathly _ afraid of getting glowworms in my tires.”

Ricochet froze. His vents coughed. His EM field went flat. Smokescreen risked a look up into his face. He was so adorable when completely, utterly confused. 

“What?” Smokescreen asked sweetly. “There a  _ problem _ with my very reasonable fear?”

The Polyhexian coughed again. “I’m just tryin’ ta figure out  _ how the Pit _ you’d even  _ get _ glowworms in yer tires.”


	3. Zombies

The Ghosts of Praxus — at least some of them — were picking through the battlefield, looking for anything useful. Weapons and ammunition were strewn everywhere, but so were unexploded ordnance and landmines. The Ghosts’ scouts had come across the site a few orns after both sides had retreated. 

The chances of finding any survivors were slim, but live mechs — either Autobots to rescue and return to Prime, or Decepticons for Jazz and Firefly to interrogate before executing — would be the most valuable find of all.

Smokescreen picked through the dead bodies and checked them all. First for signs of life, then for anything valuable they might have been carrying in their subspace, then for one of the spare parts Firefly needed for his medbay. Already Smokescreen’s subspace had a dozen scavenged fuel pumps, twice that many knee and elbow actuators, and six or seven undamaged hands, cut off at the dead mechs’ wrists. Firefly could dig through and pull out the tiny finger actuators himself. Smokescreen was sure he’d just botch it. 

He also had about ten scattershot blasters, twenty combat knives, a wicked Decepticon energy sword, half a case’s worth of grenades, half a package of energon goodies, and some emergency rations. 

Nothing alive, so far. Since the battle site was a few orns old, the Ghosts didn’t actually expect to find survivors.

They hoped though. They always hoped.

Which was why Smokescreen was  _ elated _ when he spotted the movement of one of the grey Autobot frames trying to get up. 

(Grey meant dead, except when it didn’t. All the Ghosts were grey…)

He signaled the Ghosts nearest him as he started pushing aside the bodies to help the mech. “Don’t move. We’ll get a medic out here soon,” he admonished, flaring his doorwings wide in an authoritarian posture. The gesture was automatic, and it was unlikely the medium sized Iaconi understood it, but hopefully it reassured the mech he was among allies. Praxan doorwings weren’t something a Decepticon would have.

No luck. The mech kept struggling, groaning softly. 

Smokescreen pushed the last obstruction off the mech and turned to hold him still.

And screamed as the mech — what was  _ left _ of the mech — lunged out at him, broken hands rearranged into surprisingly strong claws scrabbling at his armor, trying to tear through it. What he’d thought were biolights was really a sickly, purple glow dripping from the mech’s injuries that make Smokescreen’s tanks rebel. What he’d mistaken for optic injuries were really the dead and dark optics of a corpse. 

_ I’m gonna die! _

He fended off the thing’s attacks as best he could. A nasty, horrible little curl of arousal threaded through him, responding to the fear. Had this been any sort of  _ normal _ opponent, this would be where Smokescreen would laugh and spray him with his signature smoke, surprising the Decepticon with finding such a tiny, non-warframe berserker. But this was no Decepticon. Hand-to-hand training had him kicking the thing away from him on instinct.

It was stronger than it looked — than any mech its size should have been — and only fell back slightly. Smokescreen took the chance to scoot backwards, scrambling away.

Coming up behind Smokescreen, Ricochet took the chance to put his spear through the thing’s throat with enough force to send it sprawling and pin it to the ground.

Smokescreen watched, transfixed as the Family enforcer stalked up and shot the pinned thing with his scattershot blaster. Once. Twice. Six times. Smokescreen tried to convince himself six shots was overkill but he was shaking and couldn’t quite do so. 

Especially when that sick purple glow dripped from the thing’s parts into a puddle on the ground. Thick and viscous, the glowing goo swirled in place for a moment, then flowed in Ricochet’s direction, carrying chunks of its previous host along with it. Smokescreen cried out a warning, but Ricochet was already moving, and the glowing…  _ stuff _ seemed to change its mind, flowing towards another nearby corpse.

Ricochet dropped an incendiary grenade on the puddle, then bodily picked up Smokescreen to get him out of the blast radius. The grenade lit up the puddle with a weird purple fire that shrieked as it burned. Smokescreen’s commsuite picked up a staticky click-code message from Ricochet that he’d never heard before and a chorus of “acknowledged” filled the airwaves in response, sounding like a sudden spate of solar flare interference.

“What was that?” Smokescreen finally gasped out while Ricochet checked over his wounds.

“Terrorcon,” the Polyhexian grunted out, carefully cleaning the wounds the thing had left on Smokescreen’s chassis. “Dead thing animated by dark energon. Happens sometimes, though rarely unless a sorcerer’s involved.”

A hundred stories told by the priests about Megatronus’ betrayal flitted through Smokescreen’s processor. He gulped. “I thought only the Fallen could make them.”

Ricochet snorted. “Terrorcons’re easy fer any sorcerer t’make. Easy enough that it happens by accident sometimes. Bit’a dark energon, a corpse. Terrorcon.” Ricochet frowned at Smokescreen’s wounds. 

“What is it?” He had been trying not to watch — Smokescreen didn’t like to look at his own internals — but he looked now. A streak of sick purple sat there like an infection. He screeched.

“Quiet,” Ricochet admonished gently. “Gotta concentrate.”

The mech started muttering. Vaguely Smokescreen recognized various prayers, beseeching Primus to intervene. This wasn’t like listening to a priest pray. It was hard for Smokescreen, who had grown up with fancy, over decorated temples, and stoic, stuffy ceremonies, to imagine Primus answering the prayers — offered in need, not faith — of a criminal and terrorist, kneeling on a dirty battlefield. But when Ricochet nicked one of his own, smaller, energon lines and let the drops of fluid drip onto the streak of purple, it flicker-flared, smoked and  _ burned _ away.

It felt like acid. It felt like  _ hatred. _ His blood had become a  _ battlefield. _ He couldn’t hold back a scream as pain sent him down into darkness.

When Smokescreen came back to himself, he was on a stretcher, being carried through a dark tunnel. “Ricochet?” he called.

“Here,” the mech said from next to the stretcher. A moment later Smokescreen’s tacked-on visor finished rebooting and Smokescreen saw the infrared outline of the mech, worriedly pacing alongside them. “Gonna be fine. Pretty sure I got it all, but Firefly’ll check you over, and we’ll make the run t’Iacon a few orns early. Get Prime t’bless ya fer good measure.”

“How did—” Smokescreen wasn’t even sure what he was trying to ask.

Ricochet answered one of the questions anyway. “Ain’t nothin’ special. Seen one now, we’ll start seeing others. Gonna teach you wing-frames how t’purify th’wounds too.”


	4. New Moon

The Prime’s blessing still tingled through his circuits, hours later. Smokescreen had expected disbelief, and Ironhide, the bodyguard that always accompanied the Prime to these shipment pickups, was in fact disbelieving. The Prime, however, had looked stricken and worried. He’d blessed Smokescreen immediately and without reservation, and had tried to refuse any sort of repayment until Ricochet had snarled at him that _he_ refused to be in Optimus’ debt and to just _take the Primusdamned intel already._

Smokescreen had been torn between laughing at the Prime’s poorly disguised surprise or touched that Ricochet would take on _his_ debt for him.

Or maybe just snickering, because the “payment” of enemy intelligence had been as fictional as the “payment” of weapons the Prime used to ensure the relief packages got to Polyhex safe. The Ghosts were taking the relief packages _and_ the weapons to Polyhex, where they’d “sell” both to Ricochet’s sparker (who immediately turned around to sell the weapons to Polyhex’s military and government and citizens) in return for the acid resistant tarps and caulk, specialized medicines, and other sundry items they needed to continue living and fighting in the tunnels as they did. All were things all parties involved would do for free, if “free” weren’t a word the Families avoided at all costs, sparkless black market smugglers that they were. In the same vein, the Ghosts would have given Prime the intel they’d gotten for some other fictional price, if Smokescreen hadn’t needed the blessing.

Worried, the Prime had cited the terrorcon — and the supposition he and Ricochet’d both shared that more would rise up as Cybertron continued to get worse under the weight of the War — to try and convince Ricochet that the Ghosts should come in, become Autobots. Move into Iacon and the other Autobot strongholds where they weren’t so vulnerable. Ricochet had brushed away the danger, saying they could deal with it. Smokescreen hadn’t been so certain, but he’d be damned before he gave up fighting this war the way _he_ needed to fight.

But he had to admit, if only to himself, that the dark smugglers’ route from Iacon to Polyhex had suddenly become a frightening thing. Safe from Decepticons, yes, but Smokescreen hadn’t fully appreciated that even without Decepticons, a smuggler’s life was incredibly dangerous.

Not sexy, no matter how excited the fear made him.

For the Polyhexian smugglers, it didn’t seem like anything had changed as they hauled the crates through the tunnels. Remembering a few of the stories Ricochet had let slip, Smokescreen had to conclude that, for them, nothing had. Those Praxans and former Polyhexian civilians who’d turned smuggler for these runs were looking as nervous as he felt.

A staccato tapping echoed through the tunnel. Others answered. Smokescreen could barely follow the conversation. He was used to translating the version of the code the Ghosts used for transmission security, not the original claws-against-the-side-of-the-tunnel version. Something about a detour? Medicine?

“What’s going on?” he asked Tango, who had been sparked Family and thus able to follow the tapped conversation much better than Smokescreen could. He would have asked Ricochet, but he was up towards the front of the smugglers’ caravan.

“There’s a spot up ahead where th’tunnel gives us surface access. Ricochet’s said we’ll rest up there tonight.”

 _Ricochet knows what he’s doing,_ Smokescreen thought, even as he simultaneously thought of being spotted by a Decepticon flyover and being forced to defend themselves sparked _fear-excitement-arousal._ Smokescreen prided himself on being the sensible sort of berserker — the kind that _wouldn’t_ rush into a fight just because it was there and it _felt_ good to fight — but there was no denying what he was.

“Surface access” turned out to be a very loose description. Yes, technically they were on the surface, but the tunnel had come out in a tall ravine made of the ruins of an ancient city. Far from being camped out in the open, the smugglers hunkered down into little debris hollows made by the ruins of old buildings.

Little hollows it was obvious the smugglers had used many times before, from the remains of old campsites, the caches of energon and other necessities, and other signs previous mechs had left behind.

Ricochet herded Smokescreen into one of the few taller buildings that had a clear view of the sky, looking east down the length of the ravine. The actual space in the building that hadn’t collapsed and thus available for sleeping was barely big enough for both of them, if they cuddled, but the other Ghosts hadn’t let Ricochet settle into one of the hollows away from Smokescreen. It didn’t matter how much they protested that they _weren’t dating,_ the Ghosts arranged for them to be together as much as possible, as they did the other couples and trines among their number.

Ricochet had made a good call, Smokescreen decided, sitting at the entrance of the building-cave looking out at the stars. No moon tonight, but Primus the _stars._ So bright they lit up the ground around for as far as he could see. Smokescreen’s light-starved optics drank in the sight. He didn’t know why the starlight settled his spark like the lights of Iacon, or the camp fires springing up in the smugglers’ camp, did not, but he couldn’t look away.

“Thought you’d appreciate that,” Ricochet said, returning from his rounds, checking on the others and making sure everyone had gotten settled and their cargo was well hidden. “Ain’t nothin like light — real, creator-made light — t’soothe ya after an encounter like that. Rest’a us’ll be up and moving before sunrise, but we’ll wait in th’tunnel fer ya t’see it.”

“I don’t need extra consideration.”

“Know ya don’t,” Ricochet said, so matter-of-factly that Smokescreen felt warmed by his confidence. “Would do th’same fer anyone who’d just had a brush with corruption like ya did. Part’a healing. Starlight. Sunrise. Then back inta th’dark.”


	5. Lost in the Woods

“So, uh, I thought you said you knew the tunnels like the back of your own hand?”

Ricochet snorted. “Said I knew the  _ smuggling _ tunnels like th’back of m’hand. These ain’t smuggling tunnels. These’re just… Cybertron.”

The Ghosts had disappeared down any tunnel they could find to escape the Decepticon ambush. Especially tunnels too small for most present Decepticons to follow. Smokescreen had let out a blast of his signature ferromagnetic smoke to cover everyone’s escape. Ricochet had beat the slag out of Frenzy when the little cassetticon tried to follow the Ghosts. Their mechs scattered. They’d rendezvous back at the manor, like they planned for emergencies.

Now Ricochet and Smokescreen were lost. The raid had been to capture an energon transport (which had really been a trap for the Ghosts) going between Tarn and Kaon so they had to be somewhere near there, but damned if either of them had any idea where.

Smokescreen followed Ricochet as he led the way through the metallic caverns. Smokescreen had an auxiliary visor that let him see in infrared, but Ricochet’s darkvision was so much better than Smokescreen’s ever could be. With just the two of them and no other sources of heat, Smokescreen needed the small heat-lamp still in his subspace, while Ricochet could navigate by just by the heat his own systems put out.

Suddenly Ricochet stopped, scanned the tunnels around him. “Lights.”

Both of them switched on their headlights and scanned the tunnel, though Smokescreen didn’t know what they were looking for. Behind them was the tunnel they’d come from, of course, and ahead it branched off in two directions, though one of those tunnels was blocked by a cave-in. When Ricochet grunted,  _ satisfaction _ buzzing through his EM field, Smokescreen swung around to look at what had caught his attention. He couldn’t see anything special about the cave-in. “What?”

“S’an old mine. Dunno fer what, but if the entrance hasn’t caved in, we should be able t’get to th’surface.”

“How can you tell?”

Ricochet pointed to one long, straight piece of debris sticking out of the cave-in. “S’a mine support.” He swung his headlights up the other tunnel and Smokescreen saw another one, this one still doing its job. “If th’entrance is still accessible, it’ll be that way.”

They kept their headlights on, searching out the support structures that would indicate they were still in the mineshaft and thus lead them to the surface. Cold as the rest of the metal that made up the tunnel walls, those pillars just weren’t distinguishable in infrared from the rest of the metal that made up the mines until they were already on top of it. Or it was on top of them, as the case occasionally was.

Smokescreen heard it first. He didn’t have the near-silent systems of stealth modification equipped mechs, but no Ghost was clunky on his feet. Self-written stealth subroutines had him stilling and turning off his lights before he managed to even articulate why. Ricochet followed suite without saying anything and waited with more patience than most, even most of their fellow Ghosts, would give him credit for.

_ Not alone, _ Smokescreen tapped almost imperceptibly against his companion’s plating. He saw Ricochet nod. They moved forward cautiously.

They heard voices, and the  _ pick pick pick _ of mechs digging at the metal. 

“Stupid diggers aren’t even worth the energon anymore,” one groused.

“Doesn’t matter,” said another. “Orders’re orders.”

Neither of them were stealth-system equipped, but these mechs were so absorbed in their task it almost didn’t matter. Better, they had lights, which meant that as long as he and Ricochet stuck to the darkness outside those lights’ radius. Their grey plating and grey-on-grey patterned acid resistant tarps blended in with the metallic substrate of the of Cybertron. Just another bit of metal. As long as the mechs were using visible light and not infrared, the two Ghosts didn’t risk being seen. Only heard.

The mechs trying to dig the stalled driller out of the debris it was lodged more than covered the small, quiet sounds Ricochet and Smokescreen made.

Ricochet gently pushed Smokescreen into a natural alcove and put himself between the Decepticons — they could see the purple Decepticon symbols each of them sported on their shoulderplates or chest — and the slightly taller Praxan. 

Deliberately Smokescreen buzzed his  _ annoyance _ followed in quick succession by  _ fear-excitement-arousal _ against Ricochet’s EM field, reminding him that he may have started out as a civilian but he was hardly helpless. 

Ricochet answered with his own  _ murderous intent _ and didn’t move.

Right. Smokescreen was a combat veteran and a had learned to harness his mixed up fear and arousal into the his own version of the berserker rages common among those Decepticons who had been gladiators. But Ricochet was a  _ killer. _

Ten to two was not good odds, no matter what sort of attitudes they approached the battle with. Better to wait until they left and hope they weren’t immediately replaced by another group. 

As luck would have it, they weren’t. Ricochet and Smokescreen ghosted after them. They had to flatten themselves against another wall to let a group going down pass them, but they were grumbling and miserable mechs not looking forward to their shift in the mines. Just as importantly, they felt safe and the illusion of safety made them unobservant.

It got busier as they got closer to the surface. Evading the miners and the vicious overseers became harder and harder. Until the lights grew brighter but the flood of miners coming and going trailed off. Shift change over. Ricochet couldn't spot any security systems but that didn't mean none existed. All they could do was stay out of sight.

At the entrance to the mine, the light was uncompromising. There was no way they were sneaking out that way. Maybe some of the stealth-system equipped Ghosts could, but not the two of them.

But they looked up through the entrance at the shadowed towers of Darkmount beyond the lights of the mining facility in near-disbelief.

“No where on Cybertron’s safe from th’Ghosts of Praxus,” Ricochet breathed almost soundlessly.

_ Arousal-fear-vicious glee, _ was Smokescreen’s answer.


	6. Bonus! Sparkeaters

“So fair’s fair,” Smokescreen said brightly. He supposed this wasn’t quite post coital cuddling anymore, given they’d interfaced over a joor ago. But he liked cuddling, Ricochet liked cuddling… Smokescreen did not see a problem with this. “What’s your worst fear?” Then because he hadn’t exactly been completely one-hundred percent honest about his very personal fear, he added, “Permission to skip over anything that has to do with your twin, if you want.”

“Well in  _ that _ case,” Ricochet drawled like the prospect of talking about the issues he was having with his twin wasn’t something he dreaded. Smokescreen knew, if not the whole story, enough of it. It confused him — in Praxus, twins were  _ inseparable _ no matter what happened. How could someone even  _ imagine _ being apart from someone they’d been bonded to since their sparks ignited? Ricochet had extremely mixed feelings about that bond with his twin, and their current estrangement. Mixed feelings that resulted in intertwined arousal and anger that sent Ricochet back to Smokescreen almost as often as Smokescreen sought him out. 

Smokescreen almost expected Ricochet to say something silly, like he had. Not that he  _ wasn’t _ afraid of glowworms in his tires, but it certainly wasn’t the sparkbearing vulnerability of his other fears. 

“Sparkeaters,” Ricochet answered quietly.

Smokescreen couldn’t hold in a guffaw. 

“What?” Ricochet gave a half-sparked snarl.

“That’s like saying you’re afraid of scraplets, mech.  _ Everyone’s _ afraid of sparkeaters.”

“Uncoordinated as they are, you’d think you’d  _ hear _ a sparkeater first, and from a ways off, but no,” Ricochet said intently and when Smokescreen looked up into his visor, he could see his gaze focused a long way — or a long time — away from the here and now. “If no one else’s spotted it yet, you’re gonna  _ smell _ it first. Smell like spoiled energon and rust and tunnel sewage and death. Ain’t nothin’ else in th’tunnels that smells like a sparkeater. And by th’time y’can  _ smell _ th’thing, it’s already in striking range.” 

Arms still wrapped around Smokescreen, Ricochet rubbed absently at the forearm that hid his enforcers’ baton. “Y’ain’t faster’n it. Trained. Lucky. Sure. Y’can be those. But faster ain’t actually happening.”

Smokescreen shivered, suddenly cold. It felt like there was ice forming on his struts, crystallizing in his engine, slowing energon flow through his veins...

“Once it bites ya… Y’can hear th’other sparks, the ones it’s already eaten, screaming then.”

Smokescreen’s fans stalled, and he forcibly reset them. “How’d you get away?”

“Jazz,” and Ricochet sounded so  _ sad _ now. “Trained, remember? He had his spear close at hand. Point went through its cranium and pinned it to the wall. Didn’t kill it, of course. Can’t kill a sparkeater with a mere weapon. Fer all I know, it’s still pinned there.”

Pinned to the side of a wall, with no sun coming up to turn it to dust… Smokescreen shivered again. “Right. You win. That is way scarier than glow worms in my tires.”


End file.
